


Emotions Prompts 1 - (February '17)

by Lyonface



Series: Prompt Fills and Flash Fiction [5]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Bi!Solas, M/M, Post-Trespasser
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-07
Updated: 2017-03-16
Packaged: 2018-09-30 13:57:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10164461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyonface/pseuds/Lyonface
Summary: Prompts sent in for February, 2017 froma list of promptsby my patrons. The prompts were pulled from a long list of emotional words, and I'll be utilizing it for a few more months going down the list, so this is from the first section.





	1. Solabull // Wrecked

**Hmm.... for February - Wrecked, Solabull**

\--

He never looked more like the beast his name conjured to mind more than after the away team had slain a great dragon. His entire frame would be loose and tense at once, taking great gasps of breath to press against his rib cage, burly chest heaving as he tried to regain his sense of balance and revel in the high of slaying such a magnificent creature.

He threw back his head, rain that clung to his sharp horns dashing against the wet sand underneath them as he nearly howled with excitement. His grey muscle was slick with the constant rain of the coast and blood, splatters of the dragons mingling with stripes of his own, dark against the overcast light of the constant dreary weather.

“Ahhhh! Yes!!” he exclaimed, pumping his fists, his great axe clenched tightly between his fingers. “That was so _good!_ Mmph!” His great, heavy shoulders shuddered, tainted rain water rolling off of their perch from the shiver of adrenaline and muscle underneath.

He turned quickly to the Inquisitor, the only other member of the Inquisition of similar stature to his own. “When it fired out that electricity–and then roared and tried to fly before you shot it–!” he started but cut himself off, groaning near in ecstasy. “ _Man_ that was incredible!”

Adaar turned back to Bull as she pushed aside a rock to a hovel, finding a small part of the dragon’s hoard. She cocked a slim eyebrow at his display of excitement, her own curved, gold-plated horns shimmering dull against what light was filtering through the clouds above them. Her tone was disinterested and flat. “Yeah, Bull, sure.”

Huffing, dejected by her dismissive lack of enthusiasm, Bull turned to look at the other party members, searching for a similarly enthusiastic expression.

Coming closer to the two of them on the rocky platform splashed by sand and pebbles was Blackwall, winded but not haggered, with blood drenching his brow and beard from a deep but harmless scratch somewhere on his scalp, and Solas, looking generally no worse for wear, beyond the fur ruff over his shoulder probably smelling really bad by now after being soaked by rain for days. That elf was going to reek of dog for at least a week after they got back to Skyhold, and he’d probably need a new pelt hide tanned for his “look.”

When it was clear that Blackwall’s singular mind was glued to the Inquisitor’s shuffling around in the pile of treasures as the Warden made a straight beeline to her back, Bull turned to Solas instead. The elf approached him, lithe feet moving easily over the pebbles as he approached the qunari.

Bull’s grin was all teeth and jagged corners in contradistinction to the serious pull of the other man’s brow and mouth.

“What do you think, Solas? Killing that dragon do anything for you?” he asked, his voice dropping with a gravely edge as he wiggled his eyebrows.

Solas didn’t answer and raised his hand, producing a small glowing orb without a word. The green glow spun through the air to hover close to Bull’s grey skin, revealing the mass of gashes and cracks in what little armor was on Bull’s non dominant arm. Much of the plating was burned or broken off entirely, leaving behind both charred remnants of stone and steel along with lacerations and burn blisters.

“You’re injuries are more severe than you seem to realize,” he said, voice composed besides an undercurrent of concern. “Allow me to assist you.”

He hesitated in answer, his grin faltering just a bit before it returned in earnest. His voice was lowered once more and teasing, “You worried about me, Solas?”

Blue eyes met his with a sharp look, but it was reprimanding rather than angry or upset. Bull could practically hear it ringing in his head without him saying anything. ‘Of course I’m worried, don’t be so foolish.’

Solas’s long fingers hovered over his bruised and bleeding limb, either preparing to use healing magic or simply looking where to prod first. Bull took the opportunity to flex his arm, his hard muscles bulging under his skin, his grin never faltering despite the sudden rush of blood that it caused and the soreness from his wounds radiating through his nerves.

Solas huffed, finally bringing his hand to touch him, palm flat over a shallow bundle of blood quickly clearing by the rain pouring over them. His palm was warm despite the cold, even if his finger tips were cool in comparison to Bull’s hulking arm.

“You’ve no need for such a display, Bull. You only exacerbate your already bleeding injuries,” he chastised, pulling his eyes from the qunari’s jeer to focus.

He chuckled, unperturbed. “It’s nothing I can’t handle, Solas. It’s cute that you’re concerned, though. I like that look on you.”

He huffed once again through his nose, like an irritated dog, and gave him another look as his hands started to glow, the little orb zipping to hover over a particularly bad gash near his hand. Bull managed not to tense too badly as the winding magic quickly netted the wound closed, like magic stitches soothing over it to pull it shut. No matter how many times Solas helped him with magic, he would always be wary about its use against his body. Some things you just don’t shake so easily, like being told your entire life that magic was dangerous with no positive traits. Even if he was learning better now, the good it could do would never outweigh the harm it normally accomplished.

If Solas noticed Bull’s flinch, he didn’t show it. He finishes his spell quickly and removes his hand, looking from it back to meet his line of sight. A quiet tremor of thunder rumbles in the distance, followed by the plinking and clattering from the loot the Inquisitor and Blackwall were attempting to wrangle together. The metal was likely difficult to grasp in the rain.

He lets his hand fall and Bull shifted on his feet, hoisting his large weapon to secure it back on his back, pulling the strap to secure it.

After a moment Solas’s own expression shifted, his brow relaxing. Although his face was still rather neutral, his tone was lilting, “Is there a look that you do not enjoy on me, Iron Bull?”

Bull hummed thoughtfully as he heard the other two begin to approach, murmuring amongst themselves. His eyes traveled over Solas’s body in a very deliberate once-over before he answered, his tongue swiping at a spot of blood threatening to fall from his busted lip.

“You have a point, Solas.”

That earned the smile he was looking for. It was easy, not pinched at the corners due to Solas always trying to contain his reactions. It was genuine and honest. His chest bloomed with warmth at the sight of it in spite of the cool rain and the ache beating along his arms and chest. Even the adrenaline from the toppling the high dragon couldn’t top this.


	2. Lionwolf // Wrecked

**Wrecked, Lionwolf. Also, I love you. :-)**

\--

Cullen’s frown had been etched across his face for what might have been his entire lifetime by now. Perhaps there were brief reprieves, moments of time that afforded him light and the briefest breath of warmth or the quiet ease of genuine happiness and relief… But, no matter his ability to cling to hope, those moments remained fleeting. There had been many times where the idea of hope was all he had and, despite his efforts for the Inquisition, those memories still encroached into his consciousness unbidden from time to time. They were unwelcome, but not unexpected.

He had accompanied a troupe of soldiers to the ruins this time. As was the case for every base or camp beforehand, whatever possible point he or his forces had been spotted in for any amount of time long enough to locate and travel there, it was empty. Cullen had known it would be thus before setting foot towards the encampment. The wolf was too careful to be caught, not then and not now. His heart clenched at the bitter understanding that he had of a man he once happily called a friend, and privately considered him more than that. Between solitudinous moments of reflection, or the rare occasion they were able to be alone together before Corypheus struck down near Skyhold, they had grown to enjoy each other’s company. He had been cautious with his affections, the both of them had, but all those gentle memories brought him now was a bitter taste on the back of his tongue.

A scout approached him in the dusty, open area of the abandoned ruin. There were few papers or clothes left behind. That Solas had not been in a real hurry to vacate whatever section of his company that had been staying here ate at Cullen, and his mouth thinned when he was addressed by the young man in his stitched green uniform.

“Pardon me, ser?”

His response had an irritated bite to it. “Report.”

The scout flinched and straightened up under his steely gaze. After clearing his throat, he continued, “Ser, we’ve found no sign of anyone left behind. We have soldiers stationed at the areas you indicated previously, and the rest are combing through everything they left behind.”

Cullen turned away from him to look around the large room, looking at a small round table with a snuffed candle sitting on top. He touched the wax. There was no dust, but the drippings were solid, so they hadn’t left all that long ago. “It will be a miracle if we find anything. Sol–” his face was sour as he corrected himself, “The Dread Wolf has not been careless yet, and I doubt he will be this time.”

The scout watched him with a stiff set of shoulders and an awkward look to his face before Cullen looked at him again and he shifted to the perfect picture of a soldier his rank.

The commander’s voice was dismissive, “Tell me what you find.”

He saluted him. “Yes, ser!” and went on his way.

Turning back towards the open area of the ruins, Cullen adjusted the mantel over his shoulders and walked further in, the flicker of carried torches dancing over the stone walls of rooms and corridors deeper into the structure, build into the side of a mountain. It was a good, strategic place to keep his men, and he was certain there would be hidden tunnels created underneath for an escape if the forces within should be bottle necked by an outside force. Otherwise he likely would not have chosen it to begin with.

His brow pinched as he made his way further, keeping his mind occupied with thoughts of strategy and war, vastly preferring to pick apart the mind of a long-lived seasoned commander, an enemy, than linger on the fleeting warm memories now stained by second-guessing and bitter self-degradation. It was useless to ask how he couldn’t see it, how he’d been blind to his true intentions. All the motives he claimed to have had been thrown into question. Was their friendship simply a tool, a means to curve the Inquisition towards a disadvantage from the start? Late visits at his office were simply diversions, distractions while his spies moved about. Dalliances that—

There it was, the burn of regret and longing at the duplicity splitting in his chest, sheltered behind the steel mantel strapped across his chest. He sighed, as if the release of his breath could remove the fuel for the remaining embers that he could not snuff out when another set of candles caught his attention as he stepped into an outer room with a high window. They were tall and red, the thin walls of wax circling the low dip of the wick layer, suggesting many nights of short or controlled use. They sat in a small arc over at one end of a wooden desk in the corner of the room, the drips of wax fusing them together along their edges. As the sun shone through the high window, it struck the wax walls and pressed through them, casting a deep, warm hue over papers that had been left behind.

Frowning, curious, Cullen broke from his position near the door and made his way to it, attempting to leave the ache there as the steel hooks over his chest piece clinked, the sound ringing against the stone walls around him. His tired eyes were drawn to the ghostly, vague shapes stretched over the documents and that ache surged from the doorway right back into his chest once he recognized the penmanship written along the surface, carefully, deliberately, cast in the red of the candle. With an unsteady hand and a pinched feeling in his heart, he reached out and took them, bringing the bunch up to read over what was written. If he didn’t know any better, he could have sworn that his smell still lingered on the pages and the few memories of exchanged correspondence and other materials flashed through his mind of their days back in Skyhold, when the farce was still hidden, but the days were brighter.

The ache of heartbreak was not new to him, but a heartbreak of this breed, this mold, was something new altogether, and the hold had yet to release him. As his eyes lingered on the few words written there, he could feel the split in his chest ache again, the memories plaguing him in this place, pushing him off balance and past the character of the commander he preferred, even just for a moment.

 

_You will reach your objective, Commander. I know it._

 

At the threat of tears behind his stinging eyes, he crumpled the note in his hand, gripping it tightly in his fist, attempting to quash the former warmth and the pain it brought along with it as he did so to the physical object in his hand that pulled them to the surface. The words echoed in his mind in the low, friendly tone Solas would use when they were alone together, taunting him with promises he would never keep, manipulating his sensibilities and attention. The split behind his breast was raw now. There was too much here, too much of him here, still lingering in the stone of the ancient elven structure, in the snuffed candles and the dust of the air that lingered in Cullen’s lungs…

He forced another breath from inside him, the roiling clamped down by the necessity of staying focused, staying in command of his emotions when there were people relying on him. His men were relying on him. Thedas was relying on him.

As he turned on his heel, tossing the crumpled paper at the row of snuffed candles, he knew that Solas was at least right about one thing: He _would_ succeed, for, in the end, there was no other outcome he would tolerate.


End file.
